


Streetlight People

by Loracine



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mentions of past homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loracine/pseuds/Loracine
Summary: Jared remembers the events that led to their life together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to my artist expectative for the wonderful prompt he made!
> 
> [Master Art Post](http://expectative.livejournal.com/62553.html)

Present Day…

Jared looked up at the big analog clock on the wall for the hundredth time since lunch. As six o’clock steadily approached he found that he was getting more and more nervous, looking at the time more and more often. He bit his lip and went over his plans, searching for something that he forgot, anything important that he might have missed. He wanted tonight to be perfect. Jared knew that it didn't have to be but he would only have one chance at his tenth wedding anniversary, one night. Since he’d graduated from freelance photographer to journalist their time together had dwindled, becoming more precious the less they could enjoy. Jensen’s work hours had thankfully eased up a bit since he’d dropped the undercover cases at Jared’s urging.

The last seconds before the big hand passed over the big number twelve on the analog wall clock felt like an eternity. He couldn't stop moving, hands fidgeting with the papers in his inbox and knees bouncing as he swiveled in the too-small office chair. He really needed to just buy a bigger model and damn the cost. His body was folded like an origami figure into the current one and its predecessor hadn't fit him any better. Jared had really hoped that he'd quit growing when he'd hit twenty. He'd been so very wrong, by about three inches. His feet hung off their bed for months before Jensen had purchased a new California king set for them to sleep on, blowing their entire monthly budget in the process. He smiled as he thought about the way Jensen had nervously bit his lip when he'd seen the new bed, not sure if his husband would be pleased. Jared had been too taken with the man's gesture to be angry, too enchanted with the thought of sleeping with his feet on a mattress instead of hanging out in mid-air.

The supermarket was packed, lined with commuters on the last leg of their journey and hoping to grab a few things before arriving home. Just like himself.

"Jay-man," his friend Chad exclaimed, coming from the cookie aisle with a wide smile on his face. "How’s it hangin’?"

Jared picked up a box of brown sugar, the extra dark kind, and replied deadpan, "Low and a little to the left."

Chad’s face scrunched up. "Man, I did not need to know about that monster you got down there. Just the fact that I know anything at all gives me the willies," he announced.

Jared laughed, "Serves you right for barging into our bedroom the day after Jensen’s promotion."

His friend visibly shuddered and protested, "Don’t remind me." He’d unknowingly walked in on the pair celebrating the first day in months that they hadn't needed to sprint out of bed to get to work on time. Jensen had been deliciously balls deep with Jared sprawled out on his lap, knees spread wide and his head tipped back onto his husband's shoulder. "I thought Jensen was out of town. Worst morning of my life," he muttered. He’d gotten a full frontal view that morning and he'd been complaining about it ever since.

Jared could clearly recall the look of horrified surprise that had flashed over Chad’s face before he screamed, shrill and ear piercingly loud, and slammed the door closed again. Jensen hadn't been fazed. "You certainly made things interesting," he replied, thinking of the filthy promises Jensen whispered in Jared's ear, voice deep and low, while Chad's unmanly shrieking from beyond the closed door faded into the distance, the front door banging closed in the wake of their friend's retreat.

"How in the hell did you land a fine specimen like Jensen," he asked. "He could be a freaking underwear model. I mean every time I try to pick up a chick by clocking her in the cunt I end up with a black eye."

Jared chuckled and shook his head. "Try a little tact," he suggested as he went in search of raw cream, leaving Chad a little stunned in the baking aisle.

Jared did his best to navigate the crowd in the store without knocking anyone over and he was soon heading home, successful. There'd only been a few little old ladies needing something from the top shelf. The front door swung open with a sigh when he got home and Jared made a mental note to silicon the hinges when the weekend came around. He stumbled inside, laden down with several heavy bags of groceries swinging from his arms. The bounty he’d purchased should be everything he would need to make tonight perfect. And, it would be perfect. He would make sure of it. There would only be one chance to make their tenth anniversary memorable and he intended to use every trick in the book to make Jen smile.

The subtle glow of the moon was already peeking through the crack in the kitchen blinds as he settled the bags on the counter and started laying it all out on the polished chocolate marble surface. He remembered the day they'd picked it out as clearly as if it had been the day before. Jared had wanted a gray stone with veins of white, but his husband had fallen in love with this slab of Italian marble that the store was only too happy to part with and Jared found it extremely difficult to deny him. The blowjob on the way home had banished any lingering doubts he might have had regardless.

The meal he was planning to prepare wasn't complex or exotic. Jensen was the cook. Jared had been able to burn water back when they'd first met. He truly had been that spectacularly bad in the kitchen, and since 'the incident', where he'd ruined one of Jensen's favorite sauce pans, he hadn't been allowed to do much more than reheat things in the microwave. He wasn't even allowed to boil pasta for spaghetti, not without supervision. With a snicker at the memory, he pulled the recipe from it's hiding spot by the knife block, a worn index card covered in whimsical looped handwriting. His movements were economical, precise as he stuck it well out of the splash zone on the refrigerator door. He carefully checked and rechecked each ingredient in the list as he measured them out, leveling each cup or teaspoon before setting them onto the countertop. By the time he was done he had an array of little bowls lined up and ready for the main event.

Jared took a deep breath and turned the dial on the stovetop, listening to the rapid click of the gas appliance lighting up.

\-   #   -

Then...

"Harlem and Lake," the driver announced over the intercom, startling a baby-faced young man all the way in the back.

Jared had begun his long journey from Texas with equal parts trepidation and excitement. He clutched the ratty backpack to his chest, cursing his own stupidity for falling asleep on the short trip from the Greyhound terminal, even though he’d been up for almost three days straight by the time he'd nodded off out of sheer exhaustion. His parents hadn't exactly been supportive of his choices. They could have handled his decision to make his living as a photojournalist. It would mostly likely leave him penniless for years before he got his big break, but it was only money after all. They might have even been able to accept his fumbled revelation that he was gay, over Sunday dinner with the reverend no less. His parents, in the end, were fundamentally unable to comprehend that a child of theirs could be a limp-wristed fag with aspirations of photography. In their minds, that had made him doubly useless and no longer welcome.

The bus lumbered to a halt. The low rumbling of the big diesel engine felt almost impatient as he stumbled his way to the front and down the three metal steps to the pavement. His grip didn't let up on his backpack. It was all he'd been able to take with him when he'd left. His father hadn't even waited till after Sunday dinner and his mother had been frozen in horror, mouth open and jaw flopping like a fish out of water. His sister and brother had looked downright terrified, either of him or for him. He would probably never know which. But, Dad. Dad had waited all of ten minutes before he'd frog-marched Jared to his room and told him he could take as much as he could fit in his backpack before he left. Jared was no longer a Padalecki.

There was a cousin, though, twice removed on his mother's side, that had promised him a spot on the couch and two square meals a day if only he could get to Chicago on his own. So, Jared squared his shoulders and tried to look older than his seventeen years as he followed the directions he'd memorized from the single brief phone conversation he'd had with Oren hours ago. 'Rule number one, don't walk around with your head down looking at a map like a friggin' idiot tourist,' the man had told him before hanging up. So, he didn't.

Or, he had planned, meticulously, how he would get from Point A, the bus terminal, to Point B, his cousin's third-floor walk-up, with as little hassle as possible. It didn’t work out quite that easily. Thankfully, he didn’t get mugged. Several hours later and thoroughly soaked to the bone by the freezing rain that had caught him unexpectedly in the streets, he was knocking on Oren’s door with one shivering hand hoping he had the right place. The older man took one look at him and ushered the chilled teen into the bathroom for a hot shower with barely a word in greeting. It was only later, while Jared was curled up beneath several blankets with his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of hot chocolate, that the two of them began talking. By the end of the night, they were laughing in the middle of a spirited discussion concerning graphic novels, specifically Neil Gaiman’s Sandman versus Johnny the Homicidal Maniac by Jhonen Vasquez. Needless to say, they didn’t get much sleep that night.

After his eighteenth birthday, Jared put his sights on a paying job. His first hire was as a bag boy at the grocery store down the street, but he didn’t complain. One day, when they were desperate for another cashier, he was promoted. The pay wasn’t much better, but he figured that he could spin it as a ‘money-handling’ position and make it look good for his next job search. As fate would have it, his own body decided to give him a helping hand for once.

Jared inhaled, drawing the sting of tobacco smoke into his lungs even though it still could make his eyes water and his stomach turn. The nausea would fade as soon as the nicotine hit his system and he really needed the chemical assist tonight. The previous hours had been filled with last minute term papers and scrambling to get ready for exams looming on the horizon. Logically, he knew that he was as ready as he’ll ever be. Not once this semester had he allowed himself the luxury of falling behind, but he couldn’t quite shake the unfounded sense of doom he got every time finals came around.

At least he could cross worry about his bills off the list of things on his mind. Jared the scrawny bookworm had grown another two inches seemingly overnight and now he was far more imposing than he was used to. It worked in his favor sometimes. He wasn’t punching the night shift for chump change at a Gas N’ Sip and he wasn’t working at the supermarket any longer for even less. The club manager downtown had hired him as a bouncer almost on sight and the sum on Jared’s new paycheck was commensurate with the risk involved. His job was laughably easy, though. Mostly he was checking IDs at the door, keeping impressionable children out of this house of alcohol and debauchery. He had memorized nearly every permutation of fake license on the market by the end of his first week. He didn’t even have to get a good look anymore. One glance was enough.

Jared was getting bored, though, and he couldn’t even count on a good drunken brawl to break up the monotony. By the time the end of his first month rolled around, he’d earned his reputation as the one bouncer at Freddie’s no one screwed with. People, even the ones too drunk to stand, gave him a wide berth and when he started coming someone’s way the crowd had a habit of parting in front of him. Jared had to admit that initially, he’d found it rather cool. Now the phenomenon was mostly just sad, a reminder that he would always be different. They were afraid of him. Hell, no one had even tried to hit on him in a while. His social life was pathetic.

The heavy bass of the techno thumped through his bones when the door banged open behind him, a pair of drunk college kids stumbling out into the night. He sighed, taking one last drag on the butt before stamping it out on the damp concrete below his feet. The black ‘security’ shirt he was wearing stretched uncomfortably tight across his chest as he reached for the door handle to let himself back inside the chaos. Oren had shrunk every single work shirt he owned the last time he’d done the laundry and Jared was certain it had been on purpose. He stopped moving after he caught the distinct sound of ripping fabric and the ghost of a breeze along the back of his shoulder, door propped half open by his hand. Dammit. Oren was so going to pay for that.

It took him nearly a year of sleeping on Oren’s couch, uneven springs sticking into his side, while he worked nights at the club to save up enough cash for a motorcycle. The one he’d purchased would never win any beauty contest, but it was mechanically sound and it was his. The only thing he hadn’t meticulously planned out was where to park the damned thing. Parking near Oren’s apartment was difficult to manage even on a good day, and the various rules and exceptions of street parking, even in the designated zones, were guaranteed to give him migraines. After a couple years with his cousin and then living in an entirely different suburb, he discovered that the painfully complex parking rules were a hassle pretty much everywhere in the Chicago area.

"Fifty-seven!"

Jared hurried to the counter, clutching his ticket like it was made of solid gold. He’d been waiting in line since six, hoping to get a permit at a parking lot near his studio apartment. Twenty-four-hour permits were precious commodities, rare and coveted by the lucky few who managed to snag one, and he had his eye on a tiny lot only a block away from his new home. Currently, he was forced to vacate his spot on the street every day from eight to ten every morning. It was a major pain in the ass, even on the days that he did work.

"Fifty-seven," the man behind the counter inquired, eyebrows raised at the small pile of papers Jared had nearly thrown down in front of him.

Jared flushed. "Right," he said and produced the crumpled little stub with his number on it.

"What can I do for you today," he asked, looking expectant.

Jared stopped gaping at the man, tried to force his eyes from tracing the strong lines of his jaw or from lingering on the tempting way his toned muscles filled out his green polo shirt. He was, in a word, stunning, beautiful even. "I, umm, need a lot permit," he stammered, tripping over his own tongue in his haste to cover up his obvious distraction. "Twenty-four hours."

"Which lot?"

Jared’s mouth hung open, making him too like a complete idiot.

"Hello," the man prodded. Then he sighed and turned away from his computer screen. "You new here?"

Jared licked his lips. "Yeah," he said as he shook himself out of his trance. His cheeks heated, even though the warm glow of his tan concealed the subtle reddish hue of his embarrassment.

He smiled, and it felt like he'd just brightened the entire room with one grin. "Welcome to the quarterly parking pass battle," he offered, emphasizing the silence at the end where presumably his name would go.

"Jared," Jared quickly added.

"I'm Jensen," the man replied. The moment stretched out, neither man breaking away from the staring contest which was beginning to get a little creepy for the other citizens clustered in the town hall lobby, all looking to buy a spot to park their cars for the next three months. "So, if you tell me what intersection you live at, I can get you signed up for a permit at the closest lot," Jensen added as he turned away.

Jared blinked and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. It was the list of parking lots around his apartment. He tried not to call himself an idiot for forgetting about it before he'd gone and acted like a moron as he handed it over. "I made a list," he told Jensen, "in order of preference."

Jensen clucked his tongue as he typed on his keyboard. After a moment, he looked over at Jared and informed him, "Forty-three, sixteen, and one-o-two are all full. You're all set for seventy-six, though." He jotted the number down onto the appropriate form and that was that. He left the counter in a daze. Later, Jared was kicking himself for not asking the green-eyed man out on a date. He'd been too gobsmacked to do anything more than nod dumbly and take his paperwork over to the cashier to pay. By the time his head had cleared a little, Jensen was already helping another resident, his attention fixed solely on the job at hand. Jared was so distracted that he didn't even notice that Jensen tracked his progress out of the room.

Two weeks later Jared was convinced that he'd never see Jensen's face again. He'd tried going back to Town Hall during regular hours hoping to find the other man, but Jensen wasn't at any of the permit counters. He'd even made plans to stake out the place on his day off so he could catch him before his shift, or after. It turned out, he didn't have to do any of that. He literally bumped into the man at the store. Jared’s basket of produce and chocolate wine went flying, landing on Jensen's feet at the same time that his other hand thwacked the man in the nuts.

Jensen squeaked and then doubled over, his nose landing square on Jared's collarbone. "Geez, kid," he complained when he could breathe again.

Jared had frozen, terrified. He was sure that whatever chance he may have dreamed up with the man had just evaporated, along with any mystery about his hand-eye coordination, or lack thereof.

"There has got to be a better way to get my attention," he wheezed, warm breath huffing onto Jared's skin and sending goosebumps along his spine.

"Umm, sorry," he seemed to ask.

Jensen snorted, finally straightening from his slumped position. "Was that a question," he asked, surprised.

Jared figured that his face was red as a tomato by that point. He opened his mouth, intending to repeat his apology. Instead, he blurted out, "Do you like coffee?" It was a rush of words and he really hadn’t known what he had said until Jensen’s eyebrows rose, surprise evident on his face. "I mean, if you don’t that’s ok," he rambled on.

"No."

Jared bit his lip. "Ok," he replied, the disappointment clear in his tone.

Jensen hurried to continue, "No. I mean, I do like coffee. Just about any kind. Bitter and black in the morning. Tooth-rotting sweet with lunch."

He brightened, face lifting from its kicked puppy droop. "Can I buy you a coffee then," he asked. "To apologize for," he broke off. He really didn’t want to finish that sentence. Even thinking the words made him wince in sympathy pain, hands twitching to cover his own crotch reflexively.

"Attempting to pulverize the family jewels," the other man finished for him with a smirk.

Jared stammered, ducking his head so that his bangs covered as much of his face as they could manage.

Jensen smiled and replied, "Coffee would be nice."

\-   #   -

Present day…

The house was beginning to smell incredible, warm savory aromas drifting in the air and following Jared wherever he went. He was dancing in place, hips twitching to radio as he rocked in his Keds in time with the beat. He was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn’t notice when the distinctive rattle of the garage door opener’s chain moving on its wheels started up. There wasn’t even the roar of an engine to give his husband away as he pulled inside to park, only a low whine coming from the electric car’s motor that could be easily missed.

Jared lowered the temperature on the stovetop before the gravy he was making could tip over from a simmer to boil and ruin the flavor. The sound of worn sneakers scuffing the tile behind him sent a tingle down his spine before a strong pair of arms wound their way around his waist. He suppressed a moan.

"Smells good," Jensen commented, voice rumbling in his ear as he hooked his chin over Jared’s shoulder.

Jared chuckled. "You are home early," he commented with pleasure.

"And, you are adorable," he replied, nuzzling into the bristled hairs growing along the taller man’s jawline.

Jared’s cheeks colored.

Jensen mouthed at his earlobe, nipping gently. "You stopped dancing," he complained, but then added in a playful tone, "You’re so cute when you think nobody's watching."

"Shut up," he mumbled.

"You don’t mean that," he observed. Jared could practically hear the smirk in Jensen’s voice and he had to admit that his husband was correct.

\-   #   -

Then...

Jared wasn't a Clark Kent or a Bruce Wayne. He was more like Peter Parker without the coolness of Spiderman to improve his image. Even at twenty-five, he felt gangly, body stretched and clumsy. Only soccer had ever made him feel comfortable in his own skin, graceful enough to be one of his team’s more frequent scorers. When he’d left his parent's house, forcibly removed actually, there had been a few things he'd been determined to accomplish. He'd finished high school online and watched his friends graduate via Skype, too broke to make it back so he could walk with them and too proud to ask for bus fare money. But, he got his diploma.

His position with the paper had started much like Peter’s had in the comic books. He would bring his thumb drive of photos and the Editor in Chief bought a few each time. The pay was unpredictable and not enough to rely on for a sole source of income, but it did give him a chance to follow his passion and get paid for it. He enjoyed every single morning that he opened the newspaper and found one of his pictures printed next to an article. Pretty soon a few of the reporters began to recognize his skill with a camera and his eye for newsworthy material. They started calling him with specific requests. He was able to quit his third job.

That's how he found himself perched on the overpass, hanging out over Lower Wacker for a better shot. He was so focused on getting the framing just right that his hand on the support slipped. He had a moment to realize that he was going to die before a strong grip latched onto his forearm and hauled him to safety. He squeaked and with wide eyes turned to find out the identity of his rescuer.

The man was tall, maybe a little shorter than Jared himself but that wasn't unusual. The sheer strength in his body stood out against the cut of his jeans and worn Bugs Bunny t-shirt. Jared might have been gangly but he hit the gym regularly and what he did have was all muscle, only adding to his heft. He looked up into warm green eyes, the only feature he could see of the other man's face through the khaki colored balaclava he was wearing.

"You shouldn't be out here without safety gear," the man remarked.

"Speak for yourself," Jared mumbled as he clung to the support like a monkey. He looked down to the roadway and found the action had dispersed. The judge had gotten into his car and was merging back into the steady flow of traffic following the river’s flow while the two men in suits had melted into the shadows underneath the concrete and steel structure. He’d missed it. "You ruined my shot," he complained.

When he turned back around the stranger had somehow disappeared, seemingly into thin air. His shoes hadn’t even made a sound on the crumbling asphalt near the railing Jared had climbed over earlier to start his short descent. He huffed when he reached the top, disappointed there was no blaring sign pointing the direction the other man had gone. Jared hadn't expected his rescuer to stick around, but it would have been nice. The least he could have done was buy the man a hot dog from the cart down the street to thank him.

Jared had forgotten about the man in the mask until he showed up again. As a boy, he’d been an avid comic book fan. The Human Torch. Aquaman. Hawkeye. Green Lantern. He had copies of just about every edition or did at one point, in his childhood closet. They were probably trash by now, rotting in the landfill. The cardboard boxes had lined the back wall and it was one of the few things he had left behind and still mourned. Things like superheroes and fantastical villains didn’t really exist, no matter how often he had lost himself in the stories as a child. This certain knowledge that he held didn’t change his perception of what he was seeing through the camera’s lens.

Blink blink blink.

Yep, that really was a man dressed in a purple velvet suit and bright orange top hat. The guy looked like a Schumacher version of The Joker, minus the cheery facepaint, and he matched exactly the description Jared had been given about a new drug supplier on the streets.

"Yo, Martel," the man boomed.

A pair of heads snapped up in response, coming to attention as the colorfully dressed figure approached. Jared didn’t hear all of what was said. He was too far away, but he did manage to catch enough of the conversation to determine that someone had screwed up and the new boss was not happy about it. It was fairly obvious. The wildly flinging purple arms served as a big clue.

Jared lined up his shot, bringing the three figures into clear focus in his viewfinder, and pressed the shutter rapid fire. He was oblivious to the risk he was taking just stepping foot in the impoverished neighborhood, never mind the danger involved in catching a photograph of the newest criminal wildlife. He distanced himself through the camera’s lens. The advantage was that he could concentrate on his art, but if he wasn’t careful he could ignore literally everything else around him. He’d once walked right into a traffic pole, busting both his lens and his pride.

Today was another one of his blunders. He leaned a little too far forward and his foot slipped, sending debris flying down the slight hill below him. It was actually more of an embankment for the L train, and the concrete retaining wall at the top had been crumbling for decades. Little bits of concrete and dirt rained down onto the sidewalk. When his foot began to follow, Jared had the presence of mind to yank himself back from the edge, but he was too late to avoid being seen and heard. He took off running. And, while he was an avid runner, he wasn’t fast enough to evade both the men chasing after him and the ones coming around the corner just ahead of him and right in the middle of his path of flight.

He was caught. Jared hit the pavement hard, two hundred pounds of blubber landing on his back and pushing every ounce of air from his lungs in one big whoosh. His forehead bounced on the concrete before he managed to catch himself, and he could only be thankful that he hadn’t just suffered a concussion as his vision cleared. At least, he was pretty sure that he hadn’t.

"Get him up," he heard from somewhere to his left. The heavyset weight keeping him flat on the ground lifted.

Hands grabbed him and roughly rolled him onto his back.

Jared blinked up at the circle of dangerous-looking people surrounding him with a feeling of dread. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong skin tone. He stuck out like a sore thumb and with how giraffe tall he’d gotten it was almost impossible to blend in anymore. Jared figured he should have known that before this happened. Seven pairs of eyes narrowed down at him as he wondered what to expect next.

"Well, lookie here. A shutterbug," one of the younger punks mocked and then demanded, "Gimme that." Jared wasn’t sure what the guy was referring to until he started tugging on the strap for his camera.

He dodged the first few weak attempts to snatch the device from his grasp, almost desperately.

Someone landed a kick to his ribs and it was enough of a distraction that the camera was out of his hands before he realized he’d loosened his hold.

"You 5-0," the man in purple asked as he coughed and wheezed, holding his ribs.

"No," he managed to get out. When no more abuse came his way, he had a few moments to sit up and catch his breath. They were too busy looking for the pictures on his memory card, the one he’d removed and stuffed down his underwear before he’d been tackled to the ground.

Purple suit frowned as he repeatedly mashed buttons.

"Look, I’m not a cop. I’m just some guy. I’m a little lost, to be honest. Can I go now," Jared asked, trying to sound innocent and clueless. It didn’t work.

He wasn’t sure what happened after that. He remembered the anger, a lot of anger when they discovered that the memory card in his camera was missing. It escalated so quickly after that. As he stared up at the guns pointed at him, he was sure this was going to be it, that he would be the next body found floating in the river. There wasn’t one inch of his body that didn’t eventually get at least a little bruised from the beating he received, and he almost didn’t notice when the blows stopped. He was too focused on protecting his face and vulnerable stomach while berating himself for not signing up for that self-defense class back in May when he’d started seriously considering it. All his toned muscles and he didn’t have the first clue how to use them effectively.

The first sign that something was amiss was the sudden silence when the sirens cut off, even though he would be hard pressed to remember when they had started.

"Hey buddy," a man said, "It’s over now." His voice was soothing, rich and sonorous. It was like Jared was a frightened pup and the man was crooning to ease his fear. There was the sound of a scuffle a few feet away.

Jared uncurled, feeling a little silly with how hesitantly he was moving. He still expected to see the man in purple velvet squinting down at him.

"That’s it. Easy does it," he heard as he gingerly sat up.

"Hey, Zorro," someone barked from beside one of the cruisers as a door slammed shut. "Tanto’s getting restless."

The man rolled his eyes and muttered, "That doesn’t even make any sense."

There were two squad cars on the street shielding him from the majority of the neighborhood and a pair of stonewashed jean clad legs crouched on the sidewalk next to him. Years later, he still wouldn’t know what possessed him to start babbling like a teenage girl after her first cheerleader beer, verbal incontinence. His eyes followed the denim up to the very same khaki colored mask he’d been hoping to see again. "You look like a dollar store version of The Punisher," Jared joked. "Is it Halloween yet?"

"Har har," the guy replied dryly. He stood and held out his hand, "C’mon, up you get."

Jared took his hand, eager to see if the skin was as warm as it looked, and followed him out of the street. There was something about the guy that he couldn’t quite place, but he was at ease walking side by side with a man whose face he’d never seen. He was led over to a small cafe, little more than a counter and two tiny tables with rickety chairs to match. The barista manning the espresso machine waved at them congenially, seemingly unfazed by the dismissive attitude of Jared’s escort as they sat down at the table furthest from the door. He brought them each a small shot of extra sweet Cuban coffee, complete with condensed cream straight out of the can.

His voice was eerily familiar as he pushed one of the coffees towards Jared and urged, "Drink up. It’ll help with the shakes," as he nodded at Jared’s trembling fingers, like Parkinson’s.

It wasn’t until he’d downed the entire thing, sugar sliding over his tongue that it came to him. "I’m Mary Jane," he said, looking at Jensen’s eyes behind the khaki mask.

\-   #   -

Present Day...

"Mmm, what are you thinking about," Jensen inquired from behind him.

Jared blinked, realizing that he had gotten caught up in his memories and had stopped stirring the gravy. He looked down at the clumps forming in the pot and cursed. "Dammit. Umm, Jen, man, you gotta, uh, give me some space," he stuttered out as Jensen began to test his powers of concentration.

"Hmmm," he hummed around a chunk of Jared’s trapezius caught between his teeth.

Jared tilted his head to the side, unable to resist giving the man better access. If Jensen’s mouth would just reach upward a little further he knew he’d be putty in his arms. Jared shut down that train of thought quickly, shivering a little as he pulled away. "Jen, honey, if you don’t knock it off I’m going to ruin dinner," he complained. Their Anniversary dinner, no less, and he was a terrible cook.

Jensen ignored him, fingers a dancing along his ribs as he lightly kissed a line from one shoulder point to the other.

Jared huffed. "Officer Tight Ass, if you make me burn this gravy I’ll," he began.

"You’ll what," Jensen playfully challenged.

He looked over his shoulder at those waggling eyebrows and retorted, "Remember Albuquerque?"

"I made Captain last year," he grumbled, but he gave Jared the space he needed to finish dinner, barely. He even left him alone long enough to set the table and get the first few bites into his mouth.

Jared had tried to remember the exact moment that he fell head or heels in love with Jensen. He would wrack his brain to recall that magical event where Jensen became more than just his late night booty call and he failed every single time. Because there was no single moment but rather a slow progression into love, a slow-burning flame that felt like it’d never snuff out. In the beginning, he didn’t realize just how much of himself he had been keeping out of their arrangement, but it soon became painfully apparent that he had been lying to himself with all of his claims that this thing between them had only ever been about physical needs, casual sex. From the moment he’d laid eyes on Jensen he’d been lost.

He could recall clearly, though, exactly when he became aware that his infatuation with the green-eyed beauty morphed into a tender adoration of the sort that could inspire poets. Jensen had been strumming on a guitar by the steps to his apartment building. His eyes had been closed as he hunched over the wooden instrument, singing softly and slightly off-key. Jared had just stood the sidewalk until he’d finished, unwilling to disturb him. There were moments that Jensen was more than just handsome. He became beautiful in a way that made him seem untouchable. Jared had wanted to save that moment and put it into his pocket. He still sang that way sometimes, when he was tired or when a tough case plagued his mind. Only then did his voice betray him.

Jared slid a small package across the table after they’d finished eating, fingers lingering until Jensen took it gently from his grasp. The elegant gold paper ripped easily under Jensen’s curious fingers and Jared bit his lip nervously as his husband lifted the lid off the white box.

Jensen sucked in a breath, holding it while his eyes rounded. "Jay," he gasped.

"The guys helped me set it up," he explained, referring to half the precinct where Jensen worked. "All of your shifts are covered."

Jensen set the guitar pick on the table and cradled the business card in his hand like it was made of glass. "Is this for real," he asked.

"Do you remember Martel," Jared prompted. Jensen nodded and he continued, "He looked me up a couple months back." Jensen looked up at him in alarm, but Jared waved off his concern, "His kid brother’s been talking to him lately. You know, the one you mentored after the trial."

He did remember. David had been all of eight years old and after watching him remain so stoic the entire time he’d sat in the courtroom watching his big brother get picked apart by the prosecutor, Jensen remembered wanting to help him land safely. They’d lost contact after the third set of foster parents. Martel had been the only blood family the kid had left. Honestly, he hadn’t thought he had done much good in the boy’s life. There just had not been enough time. "How’s he doing," he asked, unable to resist his knee-jerk protective reaction for a boy, no man, that had to be almost nineteen years old now.

Jared hummed, "He’s good. He got tapped by his label to collaborate on an album for the Namibian survivors. It’s set to come out in June."

Jensen knew that David was a bigshot blues musician now. He even knew that his music tapped into the old Chicago style. He’d purchased every single CD as they had come out and hoped that Jared wasn’t paying attention. Jensen had a big heart and he had a special soft spot for hard-luck kids, but he wasn’t too keen on anyone else knowing that fact.

Jared had been watching Jensen at open mic nights for years, mostly just to blow off some steam on the stage. This, though, was a completely different animal. This was the chance to be recorded next to real musicians, not just those that dabbled on the weekends. "It was David’s idea, Jen. He wasn’t sure you’d even remember him, but he remembered those guitar lessons you gave him," he said as he watched something like wonder spread over his husband’s face.

Jensen’s gaze traced the names of several artists written on the back of the card. "Jay," he began before the rest of the words caught in his throat. He ended up in Jared’s lap, tears slowly making tracks down his cheeks.

"You’re my obsession, Jen," he soothed as he clutched onto the other man and wiped the water from his face. "I’m not surprised that someone else has noticed how wonderful you are."

Jensen nuzzled into Jared’s warmth, wrapping his body half on top of the older man as if he needed the contact more than he needed to breathe.

"I want you to share your talent with the world if that’s what you want, but I get to keep the rest of you," Jared warned. "Deal?"

"Deal," he mumbled and then added, "I can’t remember a time that I didn’t love you."

Those words, spoken so softly they’d been little more than breath against his hair, warmed Jared deep down to his core. The smile that spread across his lips was very much like the sun peeking up over the horizon, glimmering gold and crimson streaking across the dawning sky. Yeah, Jared had no doubt that they’d make it another ten years. "Me either."

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from the song Don't Stop Believing by Journey. I dare you to listen to that song and somehow manage to resist feeling good. It’s not possible. You’ll be dancing down the sidewalk. Joel Schumacher directed the 1997 movie Batman & Robin. You know, the one that so utterly broke the franchise that it took eight years before they tried to reboot the series.


End file.
